


Protect Me From What I Want

by astaria51 (winged)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Break Up, Drugs, Fighting, Hurt, M/M, RPF, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-22
Updated: 2005-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged/pseuds/astaria51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bert is too much of what Gerard can't want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect Me From What I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Originally titled "Under Pressure", but I like this one better.
> 
> This is another one that it was HARD not to improve upon. Ugh. Not a fan.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply: This never happened, I don't own them, these are characters, I have no idea what Gerard Way's perspective on social drinking is.

Gerard is tired. Not tired in the way that wants to sleep, just tired. He’s tired of himself – tired of being so fucking afraid to talk to fans sober that _Mikey_ has to be the social one; tired of the same stupid songs (new, improved, sung in retrospect); tired of being the one people worry about; tired of worrying about everyone else.

He knows a good night’s rest will probably make him feel better, but right now he’s restless and drained. He can’t sit still to draw; he swallows Diet Cokes whole. He wanders down the hall and hears Bert laughing from inside one of the rooms. That fucking effeminate giggle. It’s psychotic and endearing.

Bert. Bert is a problem. Gerard leans back against the wall and listens to Bert ( _fuck, he’s loud_ ) from the outside. Bert makes it no secret that he thinks Gerard is hot. That he’d fuck him in a second. That he’s not kidding when he said he likes boys. That -- oh, by the way, his girlfriend doesn’t consider boys cheating. Sometimes it freaks Gerard out, sometimes it amuses him, and sometimes it makes him wonder. It certainly amuses everyone else in the two bands. He’s pretty sure Mikey and Jeph have started a pool called If and When.

Lately, more often than not, it’s been making him wonder, and therein lies the problem. Because Bert isn’t sober, and when Bert’s drunk, he’s exactly what Gerard wants to be – laughing, having fun. Pretty much the opposite of fucking inhibited and in love with everyone. It’s tempting. Gerard misses it.

But not enough to be throwing up for 45 minutes. Not enough to have Frank’s silent Scorpio stare challenging him for three days. Not enough, he tells himself.

 _Bert hasn’t been drunk for a while_ , the other part of his brain argues, the part that’s Bert’s defense attorney, the part that Gerard is afraid will probably always be. _He’s probably cleaning up for your sake, you know_. Gerard stares at the door where Bert’s now rambling about something. He remembers being on stage with Bert, the crazy high of it. Better than alcohol, better than not knowing the crowds are there. The two of them dancing in bad pseudo-synch, Mikey fucking rocking the tambourine, singing into the same microphone to "Under Pressure"; the hilarious knowledge that he can’t sing Freddy _at all_ , he doesn’t have the range, and everyone loves it anyway. The inevitable moment where they’re standing on a stage in front of a hundred, a thousand kids who are actually cheering as they practically make out. On stage. Two guys. Gerard and Bert. Barely hearing them with his heart pounding into Bert’s chest and Bert’s tongue in his mouth.

He stares into the door across from him, sucks the last drops from an already-empty Diet Coke and feels dizzy.

The door slams open and Bert’s suddenly half-dancing into the hall, singing Under Pressure, "...give love, one more chance..." He blinks at Gerard. "Hey, Gee, we were just talking about you." He puts a hand on Gerard’s waist. "Come in, talk to me.”

Gerard pulls back. "You’re drunk, Bert."

"I’m not even tipsy, I’m just in a fuckin’ good mood." He tugs at Gerard’s arm. "Come on. You can’t talk to me anymore, because I drink, all of a sudden, tonight? Fuck that. Come on."

Gerard doesn’t want to be arguing in the middle of the hall. He steps in; Quinn and Branden pass in a hurried way, and Gerard guesses that they probably weren’t really just leaving. It’s not an entirely resentful thought; he doesn’t really want to do this talk in public, as much as he wishes he had backup. Quinn gives him a concerned look. Gerard nods to them and closes the door behind himself.

Bert grins. "All alone, baby?" He waggles an eyebrow. He’s in such a genuinely good mood, and Gerard is trying not to be sucked in. Bert gets him. They’ll sit around and talk about nothing, about everything; crude or intellectual. He doesn’t give a shit about the way he comes off, but he’s fucking smart under the greasy hair and the emo kid exterior. Gerard values that; he likes that Bert knows about depression and drugs and alcohol and isn’t consumed by them – he likes the part of Bert that’s a romantic and can sit around talking about dying for the one you love.

Most of all, Bert makes it so much less important that the world scares him and that he doesn’t have a safety net. Bert _is_ a safety net, a shield to let him be himself behind.

And it’s damn hard to forget about that, now; it just makes him want this even more, makes him want to not care that Bert’s tipsy, makes the little defense attorney in his brain turn engines onto High and point out that even if Bert’s drunk it doesn’t mean he has to be.

He knows that if he hangs out in a room with alcohol long enough, the defense attorney will eventually point out that it’s not that bad if you only take one drink. Just to relax.

"I can’t do this," he tells Bert, and Bert looks at him funny, and a little bit hurt.

"Do what? We’re not doing anything."

"Yeah. We. We fucking are."

Bert’s eyes suddenly go from big and bright to sharp, and Gerard can visibly see him catching on. "We – no. No we motherfucking are not. Don’t start this shit."

Gerard tries to stay calm. "We’re pretending that you don’t get drunk, and we’re pretending that I won’t if I keep being so close to you. And we’re pretending that I’m not as close as I am, and that you don’t want it to be that. Closer than that. And it won’t fucking work, none of it _works_ , Bert."

“Fuck that!” Bert bursts out. "Fuck – fuck that, that’s a fucking lie." His face sets, angry. "It does work, and it – it works, because you’re fucking here, aren’t you? You’re on tour, and you’re in my room, and you’re fucking _here_..."

Gerard puts his hand on the doorknob, and everything spins. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. How this will work with several more concerts to go. What to say.

Bert steps sideways, blocking him, puts his hands on Gerard’s shoulders; leans on him with long forearms. "No – Gee, don’t. I wouldn’t fucking let you drink, anyway, I’d beat the shit out of you. You know that." Gerard laughs at the idea and shakes his head. Bert shakes his head too, continuing. "No, look. I won’t drink, okay? Or something. Whatever. I’ll fix it. Just. Fuck. Fucking stay with me tonight, okay? I mean. You know what I mean. Just stay right now."

He looks so lost, and Gerard can’t, somehow, believe that anyone could be so lost at the idea that he’s walking out their door. It’s so hard to conceive of, it feels like an impossibility. But as much as he’s having a problem believing anything that Bert says right now, he knows that isn’t a lie. It rips at him, thinking that he’s letting that go. That he never actually had it, and that he’s letting it go.

"I don’t believe you," he says softly, and Bert blinks at him.

"Don’t believe...huh?"

"I don’t believe you," Gerard says again. "That you won’t drink."

"Fuck that!" Bert yells at him. "You don’t believe me when I tell you something? You don’t believe I care about you enough to try?"

"Yeah, you’re going to try, but you won’t do it, Bert! You know, you say a lot of things when you’re fucking drunk, I said them, everyone fucking says them. It’s not about fucking words."

"Fuck you." Bert crosses the room in two steps, grabbing the bottle of vodka sitting on the table. "Not about words, huh?" He throws it across the room: it shatters on the wall of the kitchenette. "Fuck. You."

Gerard feels like he’s just taken every piece of the bottle and pushed it under his skin. He can’t deal with this. "I’m leaving," he says, his voice breaking a little bit.

"No, you’re fucking NOT," Bert yells at him, practically in tears, halfway between angry and upset. "You know what’s fucking funny here? I’ve fucking come off heroin, you fucking _asshole_ , I can fucking come off every drug on the planet, and I can fucking LOVE you, and somehow that doesn’t fucking COUNT, because I make you _uncomfortable_."

Gerard stares for a minute, and then quietly says, "Every time I’m around you, I just want to be around you more, to see if what you say is really true, to see if what you make me think is really true. And every time I see you drinking and giggly, not giving a shit about anyone, flicking everyone off and kissing everyone else, I wonder, could I do that? Is that the real me, because I seem to remember a guy like that. And I can’t afford to wonder that shit anymore, Bert. We could love eachother, or want eachother, and it wouldn’t fucking matter."

Bert sits down, not looking at Gerard anymore, and he waves at the door. "Just fucking get out of here." His voice is softer now, and hollow, and it sounds like he just swallowed a handful of sand.

Gerard turns the doorknob, and sort of wants to kill himself.

Later, they will perform "Under Pressure" again; they will kiss ( _it’s expected, after all_ ), but not the same way and not as often; they will finish the tour. After that, Gerard will say something about going in different directions, and the subject will be dropped. No one brings up the fact that the entire rest of the Warped Tour aren’t exactly known for being straight-edge, and Gerard silently thanks them.


End file.
